


Melt Your Headaches, Call It Home

by justadashofformaldehyde



Category: Panic! at the Disco, The Dead End Kids Club, The Young Veins
Genre: Other, Overdose, So be safe, Suicide, this is gonna be very triggering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:20:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28994364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadashofformaldehyde/pseuds/justadashofformaldehyde
Summary: If you had asked Ryan if he was suicidal a year ago, he would have said yes. He imagined the world’s reaction, his legacy, his tragedy. If you had asked Ryan if he was suicidal yesterday, he would have said yes. But there he was in Walmart, quietly buying two containers of paracetamol.Or in which Ryan Ross is suicidal, and that's pretty much it.
Relationships: Ryan Ross & Brendon Urie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: I don't support Brendon as a person, don't worry, but I wanted to break my habit of just writing Joshler and keep some variety. So, bear with me and remember that this is just a fic, and Brendon is just a character in it.
> 
> Anyway, if you are triggered by suicide or suicidal thoughts, please don't read this.
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3

If you had asked Ryan if he was suicidal a year ago, he would have said yes. He imagined the world’s reaction, his legacy, his tragedy. If you had asked Ryan if he was suicidal yesterday, he would have said yes. But there he was in Walmart, quietly buying two containers of paracetamol.

He read the labels of different medications, his eyes fell on the word he was looking for, and he looked at the price, rolling his eyes and pulling two containers off the shelf. 

Ryan Ross wasn’t a tragic person, he didn’t have a dreadful life or a sob story. And if he had one talent, it was smiling, and asking, “How are you?” in his sweet, low voice; making everyone feel special with the way his eyes sparkled at them.

So, as the man placed the bottles on a conveyor belt, a young, skinny, greasy-haired woman rolled the bottles across the scanner with no hesitation. “How are you tonight?” She asked tiredly.

“I’m doing just fine.”

His voice was strong and smooth like honey, and he confidently swiped his credit card. Grabbing the containers without a bag, he turned away from the register. “Have a good night,” he said softly.

He tucked the bottles away, one in each coat pocket, and the sliding doors opened, releasing him into a cool, dark night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been going through a really rough time and I’m trying to pull myself out of a dark place, so this fic is going to be pretty much all angst and projection. 
> 
> trigger warning for suicide, and this also contains what I guess is romanization of suicide in Ryan’s thoughts

“Planning your own death shouldn’t be this easy,” Ryan muttered as he finished putting a final box of stuff in the back of his car to donate. Closing his trunk, he sighed.

Ryan stepped back into his house and retired to his bedroom, worn out and tired. His house was bare as he stripped it of objects, mementos, or any reminder that he had even lived there. His blankets were folded on his bed, and he unfolded one to lay down to rest.

Moments after he closed his eyes, he heard his phone begin to buzz on his bedside table, and begrudgingly picked it up, answering for the only person he wouldn’t have let go to voicemail.

“Hey,” Ryan said.

“Hey, Ry!” Brendon said brightly.

“What’s up?” Ryan asked, trying to sound as energetic as Brendon.

“Nothing, I just wanted to check on you. Do you want to come over later?” The younger man asked.

“Not today, I’m pretty tired, sorry.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Ryan added, his throat feeling thick as he lied.

“We could just watch a movie or something, you could even sleep over,” Brendon suggested.

“Seriously, Bren, maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you back later, OK?”

Brendon sighed. “OK.”

“OK, talk to you later,” Ryan agreed, hanging up.

As he placed his phone back down, he stretched back and let out a long sigh, knowing he wouldn’t call his boyfriend back, and he most certainly wouldn’t be seeing him tomorrow. Two bottles of pills sat on his table, mocking him as he fixed his gaze on them.

Checking the time, it was 2PM. Ryan rolled his eyes and got back out of bed, still tired. Making his way downstairs, a notebook full of lyrics and a pen sat on his piano. Sitting down at the bench, he prepared to write the note he had been putting off writing.

“Brendon,” he began, writing for the only person who would care. “I promise this isn’t about you, or really anything. I’m just tired, and living is the only thing I can’t get a break from. I need to escape, I can’t do this anymore. I love you, and I’m sorry,” Ryan wrote, debating to add on to the sentence. “If this hurts you,” he added, shaking his head as how he could doubt his boyfriend’s feelings as he wrote his own suicide note.

He reread his words, shaking his head again as he heard how cliche he sounded. “I can’t do this anymore.” It sounded so common, so painfully predictable.

Deciding not to rewrite the note, his eyes began to well with tears as he imagined Brendon reading his note with his dark-brown eyes, messy hair, and soft lips. He knew Brendon wouldn’t understand, but he didn’t need to.

Ryan just needed to escape. He tore the note from the pages of lyrics surrounding it, and smoothed it down on top of the piano.

He imagined his body, draped over the floor, hand gracefully curled around an empty bottle, note arranged on the piano. Ryan thought it might be the prettiest thing he would create.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tiny chapter because I'm ridiculously slow and unmotivated, but here's some more. (Same trigger warnings as previous chapters)

After taking the first pill, piling them on your tongue and pouring them down your throat is easy. Ryan had hesitated before dragging his hand to his mouth, but as soon as he swallowed, his motions were fluid and automatic as he filled his body with the drug. 

One after the other, a container and a half of painkillers were emptied. His throat felt thick and raw by the time he had finished, and a deranged smile graced his lips as he came to terms with what he had done.

Ryan wasn’t in pain yet, but he knew this death wouldn’t be quick; he had another day at least before his liver would begin to fail. Doubting what he had read about his drug of choice, he still wanted the scene to be perfect. Instead of retiring to any remotely comfortable spot, he took an empty bottle in his hand and lowered himself to the floor, closing his eyes gently.

Ryan expected to be left alone, to drift into a gentle sleep, knowing his body would be found perfectly and tragically a day later. Instead, a throbbing headache began in Ryan’s temples and he brought his knees to his chest. He didn’t have a moment of peace before a key turned in his front door, and the door was swung open by someone calling Ryan’s name.


End file.
